Raskolnikov
by Operatastic SuperSop
Summary: [on hold]Raskolnikov completely messed up during the double murder scene. He flees to Germany. Erik barely recovers from his illness and is off to Germany to see Christine again. Of course, they all meet in Germany. Who knows what will happen then?
1. Raskolnokov

**A/N:** Fic crossover with Phantom. Um, I'm just writing this on a Muse, and it was supposed to be a one-shot, so uh, if people could give me ideas, that'd be great. I wasn't planning on writing this, but it just... became written.

This chapter is in Rodya's (that is, Raskolnikov's) POV, from Crime and Punishment. It diverges from the scene where he kills the two old women, the first one with premeditation and the second because she witnessed the scene. He forgoes robbing them, and he leaves the axe. Read and review.

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There. The deed is done.

Oh, what have I done?

I drop the blade, which falls in wretchedly slow motion. It falls into a growing pool of scarlet blood... oh, so much blood, flowing everywhere. It feels like it is my own blood pouring out. The axe splashes in that pool, causing some of it to spatter on me. Little drops of blood from the ceiling begin to fall from the ceiling, falling into the pool, causing little ripples in the cursed puddle.

So much blood. The air is thick with the horrible, detestable smell of blood. There is nothing worse than the smell of freshly shed blood.

I shiver like a leaf. I cannot stay here. There is too much blood, too much.

I shudder. Oh, God, what have I done?

I close the door and flee away. Oh, God, what have I done? How can I even begin to _think_ I have escaped?

It is as Marmeladov was saying in the bar: _do you know what it's like to have no where left to turn?_

I am a murderer.

Oh, God, what have I done?

Ah! I am covered, absolutely covered in blood. Thank goodness for night and shadow, and this blackness friendly to sinners.

I am a fool if I think I am well-covered. I feel so naked. My guilt follows me.

Ah, what is this? A trail of blood follows me! Good God, I stepped in the pool of blood! It's stained on my shoes' soles! I am leaving footprints! My lip is quivering and my world sways. The faint stars in the sky are blacking out.

No. I cannot faint. I cannot lose my head.

But there was so much blood... why did _she_ have to see it all? Why couldn't she have been away?

Oh, God, what have I done? What have I _done_?

Calm yourself, Rodya. The deed is done. There is no reversing that. The important thing now is to not get caught.

Not get caught. Is that even still possible? There's a whole trail of blood dripping from my coat, from my shoes... Oh, God...

No. I cannot look to Heaven. I must cease to call divine witness to my deeds.

But how can I hide from an omniscient eye?

Oh, God. There was so much blood. I can't believe... oh, God. Oh, my God.

What have I _done_?

The door opens easily enough to my little, coffin-like flat. It's a wonder no one has seen me come in, dripping and sopping in blood...

Oh, why did I return here? Surely, there was a trail of footprints leading here from the scene! Let me check... hmmm... no. The blood dried up on the street... wait, is that a spot? Oh, dear...

My clothes! My God, my clothes, they're covered in blood! They're so wet... and my hands are... _they're drenched in blood_.

No, they're not that drenched... just covered in a few patches of dry blood... just a little water will wash it all away. But my clothes...

How could I have been so careless! Let me hold them to the moonlight to see better... no, they're fine. Then what hallucination caused me to think there was blood on them?

Oh, my... my face is growing cold with so much dread. A cold sweat breaks out, my skin clammy with horror. My coat is absolutely covered in blood! I can't believe I didn't see it before.

I shall have to burn my clothes. These are stained beyond repair... oh, God. What have I done?

Ok, Rodya, calm down. Lay down for a moment. Don't become delirious...

Don't become delirious! Do you hear yourself? You just killed a woman! There was so much blood... and her head was absolutely crushed... and how can I lay down when there is still so much to do? And Lizaveta... oh, why couldn't she have been away?

Oh, my God... the axe. I didn't put the axe away. Where is it? Didn't I--oh, my God--_I left it at the scene_. In that horrible, reeking, stinking pool of blood.

That's it. I cannot stay here.

Oh, no, I hear Nastasya approaching. No, Nastasya, go away, don't knock on my...

She knocks on the door. She's calling for me. Oh, dear, the porter's with her. They know! They must have seen the blood! My clothes are covered in blood. I'll be found out for sure! Oh, wretched me! Ah... ah... what to do now? What to do? _What to do_?!

Feign sleep. Yes, that is what I'll do. The door is locked, I am sure of it. Yes. I will feign sleep... you're too distressed, Rodya... just feign sleep... it's so simple... just... feign... _sleep_...

--Ah! I fell asleep! How can I _do_ such a thing, when there is so much left to do?!

Nastasya and the porter. Did they leave? ...yes, they're long gone.

So I must be too.

I cannot leave my coat here; it's evidence against me. I'll... I'll destroy it as soon as I can. But I must be gone, and now. I should have been gone yesterday...

Ah, the sun is almost ready to come up. I slept in cursedly late. The blood on my clothes will be obvious in the sunlight... I'll have to fall in the mud and cover up all the blood. It looks like it rained last night, bless my luck.

Why is God still blessing me? Oh, God... my God...

No, Rodya. You must figure this out on your own. Fate can only lead you so far. You're on your own now. Regain your senses.

Oh, cursed doorknob! It's so hard to open...if only my hands would stop shaking. Dear God, how pale my hands are. Perhaps I really did bleed last night. Oh, the world is spinning--I've fallen _ill_!

It's too late for that formality. If only I had not lost my senses, I would be fine. I wouldn't have so many problems...

Oh, dear God... are those footsteps I hear in the hall?

I must be gone! Anywhere, as soon as possible! I cannot stay here! But where, where? I must go far, far away... oh, but where? Think, Rodya, _think!_ Have you lost _all_ your senses?

France.

Oh, perfect, Rodya, France. What are you going to do when you get there? Starve? At least they feed you in prison.

They also hang you for murder.

Oh, dear, oh, God... no. Stop wringing your hands, Rodya. You sinned against God. He will not help you now, no matter how many times you call on His name. The only man you can trust is yourself.

Oh, what a horrible fate that is, that I can no longer safely call upon God's name and receive help.

But--worry about that later. You mustn't stay here.

Goodness, I talk way too much. I am becoming delirious.

Germany! There, that's more like it. At least you can speak German. Yes, Germany. I can get a job as a translator, make money... perhaps even become a schoolteacher there, just as I used to be here. I can pay off my landlady in good time...

Ah, but what excuse will I use for my leaving?

I needed a job.

But didn't Razmukhin say he'd offer you work as a German translator once?

That was months ago. But... ah, I must quit stalling! I _must_ get out of here at once!

Nastasya! I can hear her coming. She's knocking on my door. I must be gone, I...

Stop thinking so fretfully. You're going to become delirious. Just go, and don't turn back. _Run_!

Oh, dear Lord... I feel sick. Running only makes the world spin faster. But what else can I do? I've started what I can't stop. To Germany it is, then. I think I have just enough money... oh, how the world spins...

Oh, God, what have I done?


	2. Erik

A/N: Yeah, of course I'd fuse Crime and Punishment with Phantom. It's going to be... interesting, wherever it's going (to Germany!). I actually like Germany and have a high respect for Germans, though I have never been there. (shrug) Maybe one day, after I learn German. R&R.

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"Erik, you barely recovered from your illness and you're going to _Germany_?"

"Quiet, Daroga."

"You hardly recovered! It's a miracle you're still alive! You ought to be resting in bed for a week! Don't you recall what the doctor--"

"_Silence_," Erik said with growing, restrained fury.

"Need I remind you that I saved your life?"

"_I know, Daroga_!" Erik erupted, towering over him, even though they were about the same height. "My gratitude, I'm sure, is forever and eternally yours, if I can ever find a reason to thank you for saving my pathetic life; however, my patience with you is waning evermore thin. If you do not keep quiet, I'll—I'll--"

Erik fingered his Punjab lasso. Daroga knew what Erik was thinking. He sighed, and kept quiet. Erik was growing daily madder with love. All Daroga could do was watch the self-destruction.

Daroga watched as his slim, almost skeletal friend disappeared around a corner. Since Erik was dressed in black, it was easy for him to act like a shadow—or an infamous Opera Ghost.

Daroga was about Erik's height, which was rather tall, yet he was not as thin and shadowy, which made it harder for him to accompany Erik as he had commanded, especially since Erik decided to take the backstreets and alleyways to the train station. Daroga only agreed to come because he feared Erik would have a relapse and fall ill again, and it was a very daring trip Erik was planning to take for someone of his age and his health. Daroga's servant, Darius, was not faring much better than Daroga.

"Master Khan," Darius said through clenched teeth, panting, "how much farther have we to go?"

"A little farther, Darius," sighed Daroga, continuing to follow Erik.

Daroga's real name was Nadir Khan. He was a Persian. He had met Erik in Persia long ago, having saved his life, and had met up with him in France, of all places. Now, they were together heading out to Germany.

_Germany, of all places_, Nadir thought, shaking his head and wiping away sweat from his forehead. _Can Erik even speak German?_

"Come, Daroga," ordered Erik gently. "The train awaits us."

"Erik, let me ask you one thing--"

"Why Germany?" Erik asked for him. Nadir nodded once, slightly.

Erik produced a newspaper. "Read the headline."

Nadir read. It was about the Viscount Chagny and Christine.

"So, they're in Germany now?"

"Very good. You can read," Erik said, snatching the paper back from him. "On their extended honeymoon, nonetheless...they've been on a honeymoon for a very long time, you know. They haven't yet set one foot in France. Christine seems to have forgotten all about her poor Erik... her angel... her maestro... and she almost had been my wife..."

Erik became very quiet, save for a few mumblings to himself. Nadir felt sympathy for him.

"What you did was good, Erik. Letting her marry the viscount was right."

Erik turned around and eyed him dangerously. His eyes that were obscured by his mask flared with indignation at the remark. Nadir decided not to say anything more, but sighed. Erik's maddening love for Christine would be the end of him yet.

The three of them got on the train. To Germany it was.


	3. Consciousness

A/N: Rodya's POV. Whenever it is stream of consciousness, it will be Rodya's POV. The stream of consciousness should be somewhat like James Joyce's style... I don't know why I'm introducing that into the mix, but ok. The parentheses are things Rodya is thinking when he is speaking to someone. If this is too confusing a narrative, I'll change this so it's not stream of consciousness anymore.

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Ugh... where am I?

Gah! My head! I feel like I've been hit by a train!

Ah! Oh, goodness. There's a girl here. I almost thought I'd have a heart attack. I didn't notice her before. I think she's telling me to lie down... I can't understand what she's saying...

Oh. No wonder. She's speaking French.

French? What on earth is she doing in Germany?

Let me get a good look at her... oh, there's a man here, as well. Hmm... the man is somewhat fashionably dressed, with a light mustache, and a worried face. He looks like he might have been at sea for some time, and recently. I guess I can assume by the way the girl clings to him that he is her husband.

The girl is pretty, her blonde hair falls like silk. Yet, she looks as though... oh, God... how horrible! It looks as though she's been aged, somehow, before her time. There are gray circles around her eyes. Her look is weary and full of death. It's horrible... I can't look in her eyes. They're vacuous, black holes. Anything but her eyes.

Oh, God, is this the beginning of my punishment?

Have they any children? ...No, I don't think so. They look rather young, and the way she clings to him suggests that it is a new love. These two were married not long ago.

And they're speaking French. Perhaps, then, this is a part of their honeymoon. I don't think either can speak a word of German.

And I can't speak a word of French.

This is almost as bad as going to France itself. But at least I know I'm free, and under good care...

Ah! How irrationally I acted! Now that I see my coat in broad daylight, there are only spots of blood. It wasn't covered; it was only spattered with the blood from the axe I so foolishly dropped in the blood. Now I have no hope of returning to Russia, the way I acted... I will be placed under a lot of suspicion for having departed...unless I come back with a veritable excuse, of course. What alibi have I to use?

Someone knocks at the door. Why do I feel it is Razumikhin? Oh, dear God, anyone but him...

Oh. It is only a maid. A stout one, but has the look of a German. Perhaps—

--Hello, sir.

Hello.

--What is your name?

Raskolnikov. (I feel like my lungs are about to explode from all this infernal coughing!)

--Where from Russia are you from?

H-How do you know I am from Russia?

--You've been ranting and raving in Russian for the past three days! Something about your coat and your shoes, and someone named Lizaveta... you were delirious, Raskolnikov. The doctor has been here, and he's coming back in a little while. I see you've finally recovered your senses. You nearly frightened the poor couple half to death with your delirious rants.

(What a stroke of luck! They think I was mad!)

--But tell me, Raskolnikov—

You may call me Rodya.

--Fine, Rodya—where from Russia are you? Do you have any relatives there?

I'm from St. Petersburg, but there is no one you should send a letter to there.

--Ah. Why not?

My family lives elsewhere in Russia, and I prefer not to let them know where I am and worry.

--Well, any friends?

Only one, Razumikhin, but I would prefer him not knowing my whereabouts.

--Well, if you insist.

Now she's speaking in French to the frightened looking couple. They keep glancing over to me in a light horror. I avoid the girl's eyes. They are too piercing, too life-stealing... they frighten me. It is almost as though someone had stolen her soul. The thought sends electrifying chills down my spine. What a horrible feeling...

What's this? A vision of red... so much red... and an axe falling painfully slow...

My God. I'm a murderer. I recall now. Oh, curse this cold shiver, this cold sweat! Curse this coughing! The world is spinning—

--Rest, Rodya. The doctor will be here soon. Would you like some tea?

(Oh, the maid is speaking to me again.) Uh, yes, fine. Any kind will do...oh, wait!

--Yes?

Who is this couple?

--Oh. The man is the Viscount Raoul de Chagny, and the girl is his husband, Christine. Do you remember collapsing on my doorstep?

No.

--Oh, dear. Well, I'll tell you the entire story once you're well again. These are the ones that took you in and paid for the doctor.

Oh. How kind of them. Tell them that they have my gratitude... but I am poor, and I have no way to repay them--

--Don't worry about it, Rodya. Just rest. I'll bring you some tea.

That little curtsy of hers was almost hilarious. Suddenly, everything seems hilarious now, except for that deathly stare from the girl. My God, what happened to that poor girl—Christine? I am almost afraid to ask. Her husband—Raoul—is holding her tightly, as though he's trying to get rid of it. I think it frightens him, too. He looks ready to either curse the sky, spit on the ground, or burst into bitter tears. I wonder how this couple ended up like this, and so early on in their marriage! Perhaps someone abused her?

But how can abuse steal away her soul?

Ugh. Perhaps I don't want to know. I must stop thinking about it. I need rest.

The red... the vision of red... oh, it's plaguing me. It won't go away...

How can I rest, when I have murdered?

Hush up about that. No one here knows that.

Oh, no, my fever is running up. I can feel it. I must take off my coat. Ah, I am too weak.

Oh, dear God. The world is whirling into blackness once again.


End file.
